


Extraordinarily Right

by Howland



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Disney, Internal Monologue, M/M, Morning Sex, Phoebus is well aware that he's a bottom, Probably too liberal minded for 1482, Quasimodo is the top he never thought he'd find, Rare Pairings, Schmoop, but who cares, it's romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Howland/pseuds/Howland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phoebus reflects on his life and his love and counts himself lucky for what he has now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extraordinarily Right

**Author's Note:**

> I have read exactly one other fic for this pairing and it has saddened me ever more that there is only the one. This pairing has potential to be both the schmoopy to the nth degree and hotter than hell. I definitely aimed for something more of the former but hey, if people give this fic the time of day, maybe I'll aim for something more of the latter.

Phoebus was not a normal sort of man - in a carnal manner of speaking. He had known this since the day he was old enough to learn what cocks and quims were meant for. Witnessing something in the darkness behind the tavern while walking home with his father one evening, he’d asked what those two people could be doing and father had snorted and proceeded to lay out the basics of fornication for his nine year old son. When he’d finished explaining what a man was to do and woman was to do the small part of Phoebus that wasn’t perplexed by the whole notion had asked his father quietly if ever men and women were meant to exchange their roles. 

His father had been silent for a long moment before squeezing his son’s hand lightly and muttering under his breath, not giving Phoebus a clear answer until they’d made their way to their home and he’d shoved the boy at his mother with a pointed look in his eye. 

“She’ll tell you more.” He’d dismissed, patting his son on the shoulder as he went to put away his boots and his sword. 

When his mother had figured out what they were on about for a while she’d just laughed, then added details and clarifications that Phoebus’ father had failed to mention.

It had been an informative evening, to say the least, and since that night he’d never questioned the fact that deep down he wanted to be put on his belly by _someone._

He wanted that.

With this first realization quickly came the second: never would he speak of these impulses openly. 

The church frowned on _irregular_ folk. Centuries ago it had been Rome which had reached out and shared its opinions on the nature of things and it had been that glorious empire which had ultimately spread the word of the Lord across the heathenous lands of Europe. Now a days France was cultured. Civilized. 

There was simply a natural order to things and that was that. 

But it had not always been that way. Here and there Phoebus had grown up and learned in snips and whispers that tere had been others once: pagans with dark rituals wherein men would lay with other men, women with women, and a husband may put his head between his wife’s legs just as she would pull the boots from his feet. 

The tantalizing thoughts were too much, and Phoebus knew better than to imagine them too fully. It was his lot in life to keep his needs locked away inside him, and ultimately such denial had served him well. Without acknowledging or acting on his desires he’d risen fast through the ranks, finding glory in service which may have eluded a less dedicated man. 

There had been times though, late at night, when an ache had filled him: a yearning for someone warm and strong to lay over him and weigh him down against the mattress. He’d felt little shame then at taking himself in hand with faceless fantasies playing through his mind.

He was no purist. Only practical. 

France had no love for men with his disposition, so he kept his wants to himself. His fingers would be enough to satisfy when need became too great and that would have to be that. 

Perhaps, he had always told himself, someday he would find a woman to sate his needs. They existed, certainly, but they were well hidden. Phoebus couldn’t begrudge them that. They had their own roles to play and masks to wear. This was the world they lived in. 

It did one no good to be bitter about it. 

Then Phoebus had met Esmerelda. For a brief, sparkling moment he had felt an ecstatic joy fill him, a belief that he had found what had eluded him so long. A woman who could be wife to him as he needed, who would both fulfill his needs and face the world united. They could be as acceptable on the outside as they needed to be. They could be true to themselves when the doors were closed. 

Such a lovely dream. 

She had been lovely in reality, too. She was a vision in bed with him after the great celebration: warm and pliant with enough of an edge that Phoebus did not force his satisfaction, but she was not the woman he had hoped her to be. 

And god bless her because there was a kindness and an understanding in her which the church pretended to understand but could never hope to emulate. After only a few nights she had kissed his cheek and held his hands between hers and told him that he would find his happiness one day but it would not be with her. 

She still somehow believed in love even after all the hardships of her life and all the cruelties and Phoebus kissed her back and told her she was the most extraordinary woman he had ever known and he meant it. 

He had not seen her for several months now and he wondered occasionally where life had led her. He hoped it would pull her back to the Cathedral soon, even if just to say hello. 

With a sigh he stretched out his hands against the pillows over his head, fingers flexing in the pale and shivering light of early morning. Dawn broke in the bell tower long before it fell to the streets, cutting around the dark stone arches, sheering around the edges of the gargoyles to create strange, angular shadows which stretched into the room, striping the floor with passages of dark and light that moved and lived as the day ebbed and flowed. 

His heart was content. On his lips sat a small smile. 

It was strange, he thought, that he had not been able to see this possibility back when the great debacle with the the judge was at its pinnacle. He’d been so intent on Esmerelda, on what she could be for him, on what they could have been to each other, that he’d completely failed to notice the very real presence of another who could be his partner. Another who would have been all Phoebus usually dreamt of if not for his deformities. 

Not that Phoebus saw them as deformities now, but he had been vain then. He’d lived so long as the man Paris wanted that he’d stopped thinking for himself. He’d forgotten to live as the sort of man he’d always hoped he might become. 

He would never be a saint, but at least he saw his flaws now. He saw his pride. His vanity. He was trying to be better. 

It got easier every day. With every sweet touch, every press of those strong hands against his back, every kiss filled with quiet, gentle authority. 

He was becoming the man he wanted to be. A kinder man. A calmer man. More confident, more centered, and just _more._

Quasimodo helped shape him into a better self and the damnedest thing was that the man didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it. It came easy. It just- it was right. 

Phoebus turned onto his side beneath the covers, his arm reaching under his pillow to prop up his head, his other hand stretching out slowly to trace the sleeping features of the man who’d let him share his bed. With reverence he touched the over-emphasized bulge of his left eye, tracing his fingertips over the stretch of skin just covering the excess of bone, brushing the thick brow which leant such expressiveness to his lover’s face. The short hairs felt thick and soft under his touch. 

Their relationship had not come quickly. Not even after Esmerelda had left and he’d stayed behind with a heavy heart and sense of hopelessness. No, Quasimodo and he had circled each other for months. With Phoebus coming and going from the tower so often that it began to feel like home. With Quasimodo opening up to a new friend, sharing thoughts and musings he had never shared with another human being in all his days. Slow and careful, neither had been fully aware of what they wanted of the other until it had simply happened. 

Poets and playwrights liked to speak of fiery passion - of a burning heat which ate at the soul until all that was left was the name of love and the need to cling and cling until two bodies felt they could never again function apart from each other. It made for good verse but Phoebus preferred the little light in his chest which had swelled to encompass him so slowly that he hadn’t even noticed its progress until the press of his lips to Quasimodo’s had been inevitable: the only logical continuation of events. 

A bird trilled outside, alit somewhere on the high edges and lips of Notre Dame’s walls. The sound was bright, clear, and it made Phoebus smile. He leaned forward with a rustle of linen to press his lips to the slack line of Quasimodo’s mouth, eyes shut to better savor the warmth, to relish the moment when the sleeping man exhaled against him and the moment that came right after when full lips returned a press of their own. 

When Phoebus pulled his head back enough to look at his lover the captain saw that Quasimodo’s eyes had opened and were staring back. 

“Good morning.” The Bell Ringer murmured, his voice rough with sleep but strong and Phoebus’ smile widened. 

“Good morning.”

A big hand reached over, slow, and settled on Phoebus’ waist, strong fingers squeezing once before relaxing to simply rest there. Heavy. Warm. Comforting. 

A part of Phoebus wanted to shut his eyes and go back to sleep. It was early hours still, the sun only barely arisen, and Quasimodo would not have to ring his bells for some time yet. 

A larger part of him didn’t want to lose the moment. 

He leaned forward for another kiss. 

Though Phoebus was taller than the bell ringer it didn’t take much effort for the shorter man to push him onto his back, the captain rolling with the pressure on his shoulder as Quasimodo moved himself to lay over his lover, his forearm braced on the bed next to Phoebus’s head, his fingers just long enough to stretch out and play with the splay of Phoebus’ hair. 

The hunchback opened the guard’s mouth with the press of his tongue, licked into the depths, warm and wet and a little groan rose out of the blonde, his cock stirring even after the time they’d spent loving each other the previous night, eager for another round. 

Quasimodo was never stingy with his affections and he shifted his weight carefully, enough to free up a hand which he trailed down Phoebus’ body, paying particularly sweet attention to the line which led from his hip bone down to his groin, before wrapping his lover’s erection in a firm grip. The touch was too dry, but he didn’t move his hand enough to chafe, just enough to have Phoebus bucking up into it, mouth breaking from Quasimodo’s enough to gasp. 

“Do you have enough time for this right now?” The guard managed to ask after a moment, his hips riding in slow circles with the bell ringer’s ministrations. 

Quasimodo smiled and dropped another close mouthed kiss to Phoebus’ lips. 

“Of course.”

There was a strength in Quasimodo which many had witnessed but few understood. It terrified people, awed them, but it wasn’t the brutish power without discipline they imagined it to be. They didn’t know it like Phoebus did, the way Quasimodo had refined his strength, tightened his hold on it until he exercised it precisely, delicately, applying just enough pressure where it was needed. He could dangle a man by the throat at arms length, but Phoebus felt no fear as the bell ringer put him on his stomach and wrapped his arms around him, held him tight and restrained and perfect as he opened his lover up and pushed inside. 

“Are you alright?” Quasimodo’s soft inquiry in his ear had Phoebus smiling, pushing his body back against the other’s, relishing the warmth that he was being fed just by contact. 

“Yes.” He murmured back. “Keep going.”

One of the things Phoebus had always been grateful for was that Quasimodo didn’t push things with him. The questions were always simple and clear and he was happy to hear whatever Phoebus needed to say and was just as content to sit with him in companionable silence, watching the sun as it set over Paris. Just the two of them watching over their city.

Quasimodo made it easy to fall in love. His understanding. His gentleness. His home. There was a peace to his tower abode which Phoebus had become bound to. True, it was often cold and drafty - rain and snow came too close to their bed for comfort at times, and in the depths of winter they are often driven to lower chambers more sheltered from the elements - but Phoebus’ heart had planted itself in Quasimodo’s domain and he would never again uproot it. 

All the years in the guard and he had never felt as content as he did in the bell ringer’s bed. 

Phoebus shuddered as Quasimodo’s pace quickened, each thrust feeling like it might impossibly fill him a little better than the last, each push and pull settling a deeper ache in him, moving him a bit closer to the edge. 

One enormous palm reached around to close around his cock and the grip was wetter, smoother, and Phoebus sought his pleasure inelegantly between his lover’s hand and his cock, knowing he must be a sight to see but unable to care. Quasimodo wouldn’t judge him. He always let him ride out his pleasure however was best, content to give him his head and let him see it through to the end. 

When he hit his peak Phoebus came with a groan, his body tensing then sagging as it shuddered through its pleasure, bowing to the weight of Quasimodo across his back, the unrepentant press of him which Phoebus had come to live for.

When his lover came Phoebus’ name was a sigh like rapture on his lips, the hands which had moved to his hips gripped tight to hold him down, keep him still, keep him centered. Phoebus loved this moment almost more than he loved when his own pleasure hit, riding out Quasimodo’s peak with him, feeling owned and anchored. He liked the warmth of the other man’s release inside of him. He liked everything about it. He had become easy to please.

He liked how unselfishly Quasimodo gave to him. How ready he was to share whatever Phoebus seemed to need. 

The captain wondered sometimes if Quasimodo fully understood how remarkable he was, how perfect and unfathomable. Phoebus had never talked about all the years he’d spent feeling certain he would live and die without a partner. He’d made a point to never speak about how clear it had all seemed back then, how impossible the idea of someone who filled his needs had seemed to him. But maybe he should try. Maybe Quasimodo might understand. 

All his years alone in the tower - Phoebus wondered sometimes if the childlike goodness of him was due in part to a lack of understanding. He wondered if Quasimodo had an idea of how little Paris would think of a relationship like this.

Or maybe his lover just didn’t care.

Huge arms wrapped around him in a bear hug and with a shift in his weight Quasimodo brought them both down onto their sides, his cock still half in Phoebus. The captain shuddered and wrapped his hands around the broad forearms which crossed his chest, weaving his fingers with his lover’s. 

A wind blew cooly in from outside and Phoebus felt over-sensitive and shivery as he pressed back against Quasimodo’s warmth. 

“Alright?” His lover asked in his ear and Phoebus’s smile returned yet again, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he tucked his chin against his chest and pushed Quasimodo’s hands up enough that he could kiss his broad fingers fondly. 

“More than. Thank you.” 

Quasimodo laughed a little and nuzzled the small hairs at the nape of Phoebus’ neck. 

“Anytime.”

The damnedest thing was that he meant it. He was too generous. 

Then again, Phoebus was selfish. The had their balance.

As Phoebus drifted in the early morning pale he thought of his mother, laughing as she explained the ways of the world to him. He wondered if she was laughing again in heaven, watching her son so smitten with a man he might have once believed a monster. 

His father had undoubtedly been rooting for him and Esmerelda and would be shaking his head in mild exasperation, but mother... Mother might have seen it all along. 

Quasimodo’s arms tightened in a careful squeeze that once again hinted at that incredible strength and Phoebus scolded the resulting tendril of returning arousal away. 

“I have to see to the bells.” He murmured by way of apology but Phoebus shifted on to his back and shook his head in fondness. 

“I know, go. I must prepare for the day as well.” 

Quasimodo sat still in their bed for a moment, all awkward angles and unnatural lumps before he reached out and gently pushed Phoebus’ hair from his eyes. “I love you.” he said, so easy it was like breathing and Phoebus heart swelled.

“I love you, too.” he murmured. 

And his world felt extraordinarily right.


End file.
